Imp
by Kelly Chambliss
Summary: Severus loses a bet to Minerva. Post-war; Snape lives.


**A/N:** Snape fluff. With children. You have been warned.

- - - / / / - - -

Imp

By Kelly Chambliss

- - - / / / - - -

"Yes, yes, all right."

"All right, what, Severus?" Minerva cocked her annoying eyebrow at him. Of course. He should have known that she'd never let him get away without saying it.

"All right, y-o-u w-o-n." He stretched the words out with as much mocking sarcasm as he could muster, which for Snape was a considerable amount. Maybe they could have a nice, satisfying argument and make-up sex, and she'd forget they'd had a wager at all.

But Minerva ignored the bait.

He tried again, snapping,"Are you satisfied now, old biddy?" For good measure, he ran his fingers over the mass of scar tissue at his neck. . .

. . .only to see Minerva's annoying eyebrow joined by an equally-annoying smirk.

"Oh, don't even start with the scars," she said. "You should know after all these years that your war-hero sympathy bid goes nowhere with me."

"That's because you're a harpy with ice for a heart."

The smirk became a full laugh. "Indeed. I'm glad you've finally figured that out."

"Well, Headmistress?" Severus demanded. "What usurious, outrageous, and unreasonable price are you going to exact now that you've cheated me out of winning our wager?"

Accusations of cheating rarely failed to get a rise out of her, but this time, the damnable woman just smiled maddeningly and charmed her outdoor hat to stay on her head; it was a windy night.

"It's hardly even a penalty, Severus," Minerva said. "More of a treat. You'll be watching little Randle Longbottom for the evening."

"_What?_" Merlin, it was worse than he'd thought. "I'm expected to look after Longbottom spawn? Are you mad?"

"Not that I've noticed. But as I told you, the Hogwarts Board of Governors has decided to hold one of is surprise audits. I must be present. Neville is my deputy head - - since you refused to be - - so he must be present as well. And it's Hannah's week for the night shift at the Leaky Cauldron. Ergo. . ."

Yes, it all sounded eminently reasonable, which was Minerva's dastardly stock-in-trade: making criminally unpleasant tasks sound acceptable. Well, sod that. Severus was not about to give in without more of a fight.

He tried stating facts. "You know this will never work. The thing's parents will never consent. They know I'll have the brat killed before bedtime."

"Nonsense. Neville and Hannah understand as well as I do that this animosity of yours is mere posing. They have already agreed to leave the child with you. It's no good complaining, Severus. There's no help for it. Neville is bringing Randle along as we speak."

Jesus! Severus flung logic to the winds and resorted to simple begging, something Minerva generally enjoyed, at least in bed. "Can't Pomona do it? Or Poppy? They actually like rugrats! So why me?"

"Because young Randle has requested you. I'm afraid there is no accounting for children's tastes. And he is a rugrat no longer. He's four, so you'll be able to carry on a civilized conversation. Or at least, _he_ will. I can't be sure of you."

There was a knock on the door, and before Severus could craft his next counter-argument, Longbottom and his spawn were standing in the room. The little imp was positively jumping up and down in excitement.

"Uncle Puffy Fessor Sevvie!" it shrieked, using the detestable sobriquet that the rest of the staff insisted on calling "cute." Severus suspected deliberate mockery. Was it really so difficult for a four-year-old to say "Professor"? "Daddy says I get to spend the whole evening with you!"

Severus looked over at "Daddy" and lifted his lip in the sort of sneer that, once upon a time, would have reduced Neville Longbottom to a whimpering jelly. Ah, those were the good old days, Voldemort and his weekly _Cruciatus_ curses notwithstanding.

But that Golden Age was long past. These days, Longbottom just grinned cheekily and twisted the knife. Taught by Minerva, no doubt. "He's really looking forward to it, Severus," the bastard said. "Thanks so much for helping out."

Severus gave a wordless snarl, but it was too little, too late.

"We'd best be off, Mr Longbottom," Minerva said, fastening her cloak. "The Board's auditors wait for no man. Or woman. Good-bye, Severus. Randle."

In mere seconds, the despicable vixen had hustled her deputy out of the room and closed the door behind them.

The clang of the iron gates of Azkaban could have sounded no worse.

Severus closed his eyes. Maybe the whole business was just an hallucination caused by leftover snake venom or something. Maybe when he opened his eyes and looked down, there would be nothing between him and the floor but air. Maybe. . .

He risked it. He looked down.

And there, at his knee, was a round-faced, puppy-pyjama'd replica of Neville Longbottom, the person who still held the record for most cauldrons destroyed during a single term of Potions.

Horrifyingly, the urchin grinned.

"C'mon, Uncle Puffy," it said, tugging on Severus's hand. "I want to play Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump. Will you be the Stump? Please, please? And will you trans. . .transfi . .will you make your head look like tree bark? Please, please, please?"

Severus sighed. He could Stupify the thing, but he supposed Minerva would object. Or its parents would.

That demonic McGonagall had been right. There was no help for it. He was stuck with the brat.

"Very well," he said, allowing himself to be drawn towards the fire.

"Now change your head!"

"Wait," said Severus. "Do you remember the rules?"

"I do, I do, I do!"

"And what are they?"

"One word about this to Daddy or Mummy or Auntie Min, and you will chop me into eleventy billion pieces and feed me to the Giant Squid!"

"Eleventy _trillion_," Severus corrected, sitting down on the floor. "I thought you said you remembered." It was a minor point, perhaps, but Minerva was always saying that it was important to be consistent with the young.

And it would not do - - it would not do _at all_ - - for Minerva to have any inkling of the fact that Severus had played this little game with the imp before. Just to keep him out of mischief, of course.

Said imp squirmed into his lap and screeched with mad glee as Severus charmed his head into a passable representation of a stump.

"Now tell the story!" the rugrat howled. "And do the voices, Uncle Sevvie!"

Oh, how Severus would make Minerva pay for this. He'd have her on her knees. . .

Slightly cheered by these mental pictures, Snape put his arm around the lad (couldn't have him wriggling himself into an injury, or Severus would never hear the end of it) and tested his falsetto.

"'A long time ago,'" he began, "'in a far-off land' - - are you going to sit still? - - 'there lived a foolish potions professor. . .'"

"A king, uncle! It's a foolish king!"

"Who's telling this story? 'There lived a foolish potions professor and a chatter-box little boy. . .'"


End file.
